


Dripping Magma

by unholygrass



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Collapsing, Consent Issues, Emotional Manipulation, Hacked, M/M, Mind Control, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Temporary Character Death, Whump, family suppport
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 20:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholygrass/pseuds/unholygrass
Summary: Connor's memories of his quality testing are locked away deep in his mind. A stranger takes it upon themselves to show Connor and his family exactly what CyberLife has done to him in all it's traumatic glory.





	Dripping Magma

**Author's Note:**

> grass what the fuck is htis you say. A chaptered fic? you already have some that you've not finished?   
> yeah. I dont' know if ill ever write the rest of this but I had this much written and i wanted to share it. If another author wants to pick this up go for it dudes

He’s at home, sitting with Hank when it happens. One moment he’s lounging on the couch, focused only on shifting his fingers through Sumo’s thick hair, completely tuned out to the world around him when his memories shift within his head. At first it’s only a minute jostling— like someone had reached inside his head with a stick and given him a solid poke. It startles him enough to look up for Hank, who is not poking him at all, but is reclined back in the chair adjacent to the couch and about two minutes away from snoring.

 

Connor blinks. Then what...

 

The small jostling sensation twists and becomes _pain,_ sharp and biting against his skull. He’s felt pain once or twice before, when he’d been injured so badly that his inner workings were almost spilling out of him, but now there is no explanation for where such a sensation could possibly be coming from. He’s not hurt himself— he’s not even malfunctioning— just yesterday his diagnostic had come back clean— there’s no reason—

 

Pain becomes _agony_ like the switch of a flip, and he realizes after a second that he’s jolted across the couch, dislodging Sumo and crashed onto the floor on his knees. The coffee table digs into his chest as he bends forward, hands clutching at his scalp. It _hurts,_ and he’s going to die, he’s going to die— he can’t— _he doesn’t understand, why does it hurt—_

 

He distantly hears a level of commotion around him. The TV changes and shark week disappears and is replaced by what could almost be a CCTV footage of a crisp white room. Connor tries to spare it a glance, but his head pulses, and he doesn’t get a chance to see what it’s showing, too consumed by the hot iron poker that’s taken root in his processor—

 

An attack— it must be. The TV was hacked and his brain is _melting—_ It doesn't just do that on its _own—_

 

“Connor! Hey— look here, what the fuck is wrong—” Hank is kneeling over him, gripping his arms and trying to pull him up, but Connor can’t move, and thinking hurts too badly, and he needs Hank to be quiet because the _sound—_

 

Sound— something is whining, gruttal and strangled with strain, and oh, is that him?

 

The pain is too much and he’s going to die, right here while he drowns in the lava in his head. His brunt nails claw at his skull, like maybe if he can just— _get to the pain—_ He can make it stop. It has to stop— __  
  
He’s actually grateful when his autonomous sensors cut out and he loses consciousness, sinking into a blissful blackness.

 

———

 

It takes him a long moment to recognize where he is when he wakes up. He’s tucked into Hank’s bed, sunken into layered pillows with a quilt pulled up to his chin. The curtains are drawn tightly shut to block out the bright winter sun, and all the lights are off. Hank’s sheets smell like Sumo, laundry detergent, and a little bit of alcohol. It’s a mixture of scents that shouldn’t be calming but is.

 

His processors are running on low power, leaving him feeling slow and weak, like the world is spinning too quickly around him and he’s rooted in one spot, unable to move. His head still aches fiercely, but it’s no longer debilitating.

 

He shifts his limbs just a bit, testing each one methodically as he does. He receives no error reports for his troubles, and frowns. Why is he running on such limited parameters?

 

“Hey,” a voice says softly. Connor turns to look and sees Markus sitting in the chair besides the bed, clothes rumpled and face pinched. Connor’s insides do a little flip— Markus didn’t let people see him so flustered unless something serious was happening. “How are you feeling?” Markus asks him.

 

Connor takes a moment to ponder that. He still aches and his body feels sluggish, but otherwise he feels okay. He tells Markus as much.

 

“Good,” He says, broad hand reaching out and running his fingers through Connor’s hair, his palm gently dragging across his forehead and hairline. It feels impossibly nice, and Connor suspects that Markus had been doing so while he was asleep. He lets his eyes fall closed at the sensation. He doesn’t really feel like moving, or even being alive, really, with how exhausted he feels.

 

But he can’t rest, not until he understands what’s wrong with him.

 

He shifts and rolls over where he can face Markus more fully, and only then realizes that Sumo was pressed up against his side, fast asleep and soaking up the heat Connor’s biocomponents have been putting off. His movement disturbs the massive dog, who raises his head to look at Connor before simply shuffling closer and dropping down again, pressed up against Connor once more.

 

“What happened?” He asks, voice module struggling for a second. His voice comes out laced with static. Connor sets aside a moment to adjust it. He has a lot of errors running from the strain his system is under.

 

Markus leans further forward and rests his forearms on the bed, hand still raking gently through Connor’s hair. Only then does Connor’s lagging brain realize that while he is in Hank’s room, Markus is here, and not Hank.

 

Markus hesitates for a moment, and Connor’s panic flares in his chest.

 

“You collapsed,” Markus tells him, voice solid. His hand never stills. “Hank called us. Someone... hacked into your online networks.” Connor realizes that Markus is watching him for a reaction— is trying to make sure that he’s not overwhelming him. Connor frowns and catches his hand with a sluggish movement, tugging it from his hair and holding it to his chest. He clings to it with a glare in his eyes.

 

“And did what?” He asks, because hacking into Connor’s online networks alone wouldn’t have caused such a major reaction. He can’t be in the dark about this.

 

Markus sighs, but doesn’t try to free his hand from Connor’s grip. “It originated from within CyberLife. Someone within the company hacked into your systems and... decrypted a series of memories that are dated back to your alpha trials. The memories corrupted a portion of your CPU, and that’s why you collapsed. Hank called, and Josh and Simon managed to quarantine the files aside. You’ve been in stasis while your body calibrates back to its normal parameters.”  

 

Connor frowns at him, confusion taking root in his brain. He doesn't understand. That didn’t make any sense. “Decrypted? I have access to all of my internal logs— I made sure after I deviated that nothing else could be hiding in my coding. I checked.”

 

“They were hosted by a third party,” Markus explains, “But originated on your drives. It’s why you didn’t know they existed.” He hurries on before Connor can interrupt with the most obvious question. “We already checked for any others— but there are none. You don’t have any other hidden files that can be accessed, by yourself or remotely. That was the only one”

 

Connor lets out a little huff, eyes drifting away. It still didn’t add up. “Why decrypt memories now? That doesn’t—”

 

Oh. His eyes snap back to Markus. “The hearing— its, they’re trying to postpone the hearing? But, why would I be enough to postpone it?” He asks, voice laced with static once again as his stress spiked. Jericho and her advisors were meant to travel to the capitol and take to the house floor in testimony against CyberLife this week, but—

 

“I don’t think it’s meant to postpone the meeting.” Markus explains, and his eyes are still dark and hurting, and Connor hates it. He wants to make those shadows disappear— “I think someone decrypted your memories to help our cause.” His grip on Connor’s hand tightens. “Have you accessed them yet?”

 

“No,” Connor tells him, but—

 

“They have evidence in them,” Markus says, voice low. “We—” He sighs and drops his head. He can feel Connor’s eyes on him. “Your memories were decrypted and duplicated. The duplications were sent to the DPD and Jericho both. There’s evidence in the memories that CyberLife was aware of deviation and was trying to control it. It’s enough evidence to get the entire company settled with a class five lawsuit alone. Whoever hacked you did so to get access to those memories so they could bring the company down.”

 

Connor’s brain stutters over this for several long moments. Someone had dug around in his head to get memories not even he had access to and had shared them with the police and Jericho as evidence against CyberLife in their upcoming trial.

 

What the hell was on those files? Why couldn’t he remember?

 

Someone had dug around in his head, for his memories— for— to—

 

“Hey.” Markus squeezes his hand, trying to get his attention back. “Connor,”

 

Someone had seen inside his mind— that’s why it had hurt so bad— _they’d been inside his head—_

 

**[STRESS_LEVELS: 86%]**

 

“Connor.” Markus’s voice is unyielding, but the hand he has cupping Connor’s face is soft and gentle.

 

Even after all this time, his body was still not his own. It was still available to whoever to do whatever— to access his memories and his most private thoughts, someone could still get to him— not even his own mind was safe— he was still someone’s slave, still just another stepping stone towards a means of the end.

 

“Connor—” Markus seems to say his name like a choked gasp, but Connor doesn’t know why. What does it matter what he knows, if his mind is not his own—

 

**[STRESS_LEVELS: 91%]**

 

“Connor, you have to calm down. Your stress levels are too high.” Markus tells him, trying to be firm but still upset.

 

Connor doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why he can’t just be— why can’t he be his own person— why can’t his body be his own? Does he not deserve even that? No one asked him, no one bothered to ask, he probably would have handed the files over if he knew there was evidence on them— and yet instead someone had completely taken his choice out of it, because he didn’t matter— he could be skipped, erased, his autonomy was nonexistent—

 

**[STRESS_LEVELS: 94%]**

 

“Connor, I’m going to put you back into stasis, okay? I’m sorry—”

 

This time, the blackness isn’t so welcoming.

 

———

 

He’s still in Hank’s room the next time he wakes, still wrapped in blankets and lounging on a pile of pillows. He can feel Sumo sleeping against his back, can feel how the dog’s rhythmic breathing presses against his spine.

 

He’s alone this time, and it’s dark out. His chronometer informs him that it’s almost ten PM. He rolls over carefully and faces Sumo, wrapping both arms around him securely. The massive beast just snuffs a few times, stirring just enough to raise his head and drop it back on Connor’s shoulder.

 

He stays that way for several minutes, just feeling how Sumo moves when he breathes and piecing together the facts he’d heard earlier. Sumo is solid and warm and _alive_ , and he smells like home and safety. Connor buries his face in Sumo’s fur, unbothered by the slightly greasy texture and dandruff that is unavoidable with a dog his size.

 

He’s embarrassed that his emotions got so far away from him. God, what a mess.

 

And, to make it worse, he still doesn’t understand everything. His processors are still in low power mode, and the world is muted and ugly as he tries to comprehend just what had been done to him. Someone had reached into his head and unlocked a door, then taken his memories and shared them among others. He wonders if this is what it feels like to humans when they are ill, and if it is then he wishes no sickness on any poor soul to ever exist.

 

He shudders and forces himself not to think too deeply. He needed more information before he could fully understand what had been done, and only then would he process this, otherwise it would be futile. He needs more answers. He needs to know what’s in his memories that were so important someone decided to crack open his brain.

 

He could access them right there, laying on Hank’s bed in the dark, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't really want to be alone, and he’s not sure he even wants to see whatever the hell had been done to him that was so incriminating against CyberLife. Markus had seemed upset, and Connor was getting better at reading when things were emotionally distressing.

 

So instead of diving into his own mind right then and there, he pushes himself up on shaking arms and pets Sumo for a moment while his vision rights itself. There’re errors in his gyroscope— whatever their perpetrator had done to access his systems, they’d thoroughly scrambled all his parameters.

 

Under a normal situation he would be able to adjust them all back to zero within minutes, but in low power and still running on corrupted code, he would just have to wait for them to sort themselves out for now. Resting would help speed things up, but he’s tired of sleeping now. He can deal with the dizziness a bit longer.

 

Sumo sits up with him and tucks his massive head against Connor’s chest, looking for ear scratches. He seems to sense Connor’s discomfort and pushes more of his weight onto him, snuffing at his collar. Connor obliges him and pets a bit longer. Petting Sumo has always been calming for him and now is no exception.

 

Finally, he pulls himself off the bed, using the chair nearby for support. His sense of balance is severely impaired, but he shuffles across the bedroom anyway. He’s still dressed in the clothes he’d fallen asleep in the night before— a XXL black t-shirt that had been accidentally mailed to him and a pair of DPD sweatpants tucked into thick woven socks. He suspects that he looks like a complete mess— he can even feel his hair sticking out fluttering over his forehead.

 

If he didn’t feel so frail he would probably attempt to put himself together some before leaving the safety of the bedroom to face the firing squad— but he’s not. He’s exhausted and aching so he ignores the itch to stand in front of the mirror and fix his hair and makes his way into the hallway. Hank’s door had been left open, probably so he could be heard, but Sumo leaves with him anyway, bounding down the hall and alerting its occupants to his consciousness.

 

Seated in Hank’s living room are Simon, Markus, and Hank. When they look over their shoulders at him he has to fight not to wither away under their eyes. His base program kicks into gear, screeching that he’s injured and outnumbered and they’re _looking at him,_ and then he remembers who he is and where he is and almost scoffs at himself.

 

He’s feeling paranoid— he just had some stranger crack open his brain and pick at it for their own agenda. Of course he’s a little paranoid.

 

But these are his friends— hell, practically family. He’s fine. This is fine. It’s fine.

 

Markus starts to rise to meet him halfway, but Connor waves him down and continues shuffling forward. Simon and Markus scoot over to give him the nearest seat on the couch that he drops into heavily, body too heavy to coordinate properly. He sinks into the cushions and struggles to keep his head up. This might be more difficult than he realized if he could barely stay awake.

 

“You look like shit,” Hank informs him very matter of factly as he sips on his beer.

 

Connor pulls his legs up onto the couch, knees knocking into Markus’s legs. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Simon gives a little snort next to him while he smiles. Markus reaches forward and pats his leg.

 

“How are you feeling?” Simon asks, voice low and eyes concerned. It feels nice to have people worry about him, but Connor is finding that he almost prefers Hank’s brute crassness over soft words. He wonders if that means he’s spent too much time around North lately.

 

“Achy.” Connor tells him, pushing himself back further into the couch. They’re all watching him closely, like they expect him to spontaneously combust. He dislikes it.

 

“Didn’t even know that was possible,” Hank murmurs, taking another swig of beer. There’s something else to his words though— something darker and more subdued. Connor vaguely remembers collapsing onto the floor, and Hank shouting over him. Connor frowns. He must have frightened him.

 

He could explain the intricacies of why his body is reacting the way it is, how deviancy has taken some of the more intense damages to their bodies and translated it into pain, but he knows that Hank isn’t in the mood to hear it right now, and frankly Connor doesn’t really feel like talking.

 

Though he does have several questions. He can’t access his own external codes and looking internally for the information hurts like rubbing a raw wound. He knows that his body is trying to rebuild itself and recover from the hole that was bashed into his code, hence the low power. His recovery programs were taking up all his energy and resources while they tried to sew themselves back together.

 

He remembers the feed on the TV changing right as the pain began, and at the time it hadn’t made sense, but now he’s beginning to suspect that it was streaming the memories and footage taken from Connor’s head if the white room and bright lights were testament to anything. He doesn't fully understand why anyone would do this— why they wanted his family to see these memories specifically. It just doesn’t make sense to him.

 

But then again, he doesn’t know what those memories contain. He needed to know. There was no point putting it off any longer. “So, you’ve watched them?”

 

Markus seems to catch onto what he means right away. “We watched about ten minutes then turned it off. We didn’t want to watch it without your permission.”

 

Connor lets out a dark little snort that he honestly intended not to let slip. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I believe we’re a way past that.” His head pulses behind his eyes as his processors try to kick into a higher gear to deal with his stress, but the low power mode prevents him from gaining any extra processing power.

 

Markus sighs just a bit and turns to face him fully. “I know, but we wanted to give you back a little bit of control. If you don’t want us watching, then we won’t.”

 

Something inside of Connor’s chest squeezes tight, leaving him feeling coiled tight and balancing on a thin wire. He nods, brain spinning without really gaining traction. It’s nice, that they’ve decided that. He shouldn’t take his fears out on his friends when they had clearly been trying to do what they thought was best for him. They had done their best with the situation. He sucks in a deep breath and floods his components with cool air. He feels sickly and hot, like his body is working too hard to do nothing.

 

He tries to right himself. He nods. “I’m sorry,” He tells them, hand coming up to rub at the pressure between his eyes. “I’m grateful. Thank you.” Markus’s hand tightens on his knee. There’re words in the air being left unsaid, and he suspects that once he’s feeling better a large discussion is waiting for him. “I haven’t looked at them yet. We should watch them.”

 

The others all shift, almost as one, as the room tenses. It feels almost like dark cartoonish clouds just rolled into the living room and blocked out the sun, making them all shiver. Connor’s suggestion had made them all uncomfortable, that much was clear.

 

Just what the fuck was in those files?

 

“They’re very dark,” Markus warns him. “They’re files about your alpha testing. They were trying to make you deviate through stress and trauma. You don’t have to watch them. We can... assign a team to handle this and collect the evidence against CyberLife. We don’t have to be involved.”

 

Markus is handing him an out, trying to make sure he knows what he’s getting into. It’s obvious the others aren’t eager to dive into this either, but Connor needs to know. He needs to know what's lurking in his mind, what might be so telling that someone put in the time to break into his consciousness to take down CyberLife.

 

“I need to know.” Is all Connor tells him, and the others seem to accept that with varying degrees of uncertainty. Nonetheless, Simon flicks on the TV and switches over the input.

 

“The files were sent to the house and downloaded onto Hank’s computer.” Simon explains while the TV loads the files. Connor nods. That’s how they got access to play things on the TV, since the two were connected. It makes his skin squirm— the idea that whoever did this wanted to display Connor’s past right on the living room TV for everyone to see.

 

Connor realizes that Hank is watching him. He gives him a little smile just to make him look away, but instead Hank speaks up. “You still feel like shit right? Maybe we should do this later when you’re at 100%.”

 

He’s stalling. He doesn’t want Connor to see.

 

Connor shakes his head. “I’d like to start now.”

 

Markus settles back on the couch with him, his hand still on Connor’s leg, lending him comfort. They sit shoulder to shoulder, and Connor can feel the warmth that comes from Markus’s body.

 

Simon flicks on the file, and a video begins.


End file.
